


Kings of Medicine

by duffmansean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Community: ohsam, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Suicide Attempt, powers!Sam, sam has visions, shameless Sam!whump, unstable!sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duffmansean/pseuds/duffmansean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean strikes a bargain with Death in exchange for something Sam lost... but not without complications.  Sam's visions return, hurting him more than before, and his mental state quickly declines.  Knowing it's his fault Sam is suffering, Dean has to figure out a way to keep his brother together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_"Damn it, boy! You don't know what'll happen--”_  
  
 _“And you do? No one does!”_  
  
 _“You heard Crowley. Hell, you heard Sam! He said no, Dean.”_  
  
 _“.....I can’t just leave him down there.”_

* * *

 

Sam shakes violently, hands like askew shields in front of him and his head turned to the side. He keeps backing away, further and further, until he hits the cold, hard, metal wall of the panic room. His head swings from side to side, eyes darting frantically.  
  
Dean tries to stay quiet, tries to ease his way into Sam’s space. The pained sounds coming from his brother make his heart ache, and he can feel bile rising in his throat: he did this. He convinced --  _more like forced_  -- Sam to get It back and now...  
  
“No,” Sam pleads to an unseen foe, “P-please. Ah, mmm, no. Huhnn -- Don’t--”  
  
“Sam. Sam, it’s okay.” Dean is all but pleading with his brother as he reaches out slowly, taking his wrists and managing to get Sam to lower his hands with a little, gentle push. In the process, Sam’s knees buckle and he sinks to the floor, Dean helping to keep his weight from plummeting to the stone. He’s still pleading and shaking like a reed. “Hey, I gotcha,” says Dean, “It’s okay, Sammy. Come on, I gotcha.”  
  
Sam pushes at him feebly, socked feet shuffling as they try to find purchase on the smooth rock of the floor. “I can’t,” he cries, eyes red and wet, “Stop, please. I can’t.”  
  
The begging makes Dean’s throat close up and his eyes prick. Why did he ever think this had been a good idea?  
  
Sam whispers through hyperventilated gasps, “Can’t stop.. can’t stop....” A wretched keen precedes, “Let me  _go_ ,” the last word catching of a chest-wracking sob. His fingers clutch at Dean’s jacket like a lifeline; body language offering himself up in exchange for anything, anything but this.  
  
Anything but a soul; anything but this feeling; anything but the centuries of memories from a forsaken plane of existence unfathomable to the human imagination, Dean hears in his mind.  
  
He almost shouts, “It’s me, Sam.” He can feel his patience waning and, more to the point, he feels powerless. This is his little brother -- his sweet, annoying, geeky baby brother – and Dean made this happen. Dean was the dumb-ass hellbent on getting Sam's soul out of that very place... and this is what Sam had been reduced to because of it. 

“It's Dean. Your brother.” Maybe if he said it enough, Sam would finally understand. “It's your brother! You're  _out_ , Sammy! We got you out.” He grips Sam's face tightly between his hands and forces Sam to meet his gaze. “Come on, Sam! Snap out of it. You're safe. You're safe...”

Sam gasps, chest heaving with uneven breaths as he stares at his brother, unseeing. “D-Dean?”

He nods.

“But...but, how...?” Sam shakes his head. His eyes comb over everything, trying to find the crack in reality, the one fatal flaw to prove it really isn't true.

“Dean?” A gruff voice heralds an even gruffer-looking man stepping into the panic room, concern hidden beneath whiskers and age lines. “He's...”

Dean nods slowly, “Yeah. But he's a mess, Bobby.”

Sam starts thrashing then, pushing against Dean and whimpering, trying to escape from between Dean's arms. His eyes won't leave Bobby's face, terror making them wide and immoveable.

“No kidding,” says Bobby.

“Damn it, Sam!” Dean growls, his patience finally giving out. “Look around! There's no demons, there's no Hell, there's no angels.” Dean chances letting go of Sam to wave his hands at their surroundings. “Just Bobby and me. No Michael, no Lucifer!”

Sam whimpers and squeezes his eyes tight, hands moving into a defensive pose above his head as his brother shouts.

Dean stands, frustrated, and turns away from Sam's flinching response. Looking at Bobby, he throws his hands in the air. His brother won't move, won't listen to reason... what can he do?

Bobby is still silently standing in the doorway of the panic room, surveying the situation. “He's been in Hell, Dean... in the  _Cage_. Give him a break, will you?” Casting one last, lingering glance at the huddled mass of Sam, he takes a step closer to Dean, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. He says under his breath, “I'm gonna get him some water – and something stronger for us. Maybe we can get him upstairs to a bed, yeah?”

Dean nods, unable to look Bobby in the eye.

Bobby pats his shoulder again and leaves Dean alone with the facsimile of his brother. Sighing, Dean runs a hand over his face. He's tired of this. First Sam wasn't himself, soulless and cold; now he's a mess of a man, timid and terrified. Neither of those are anything close to the strong, confident, geeky brother who sacrificed himself to a world that would never know, and never care.

He takes a deep breath. Lets it out. If Sam had cast himself into Hell, gone to war and come back triumphant but tarnished, the least Dean could do was help clean him up. Sam was still his brother – wholly his brother now, no matter how wrecked – and Dean owed it to Sam to get through this with him, regardless of how difficult it may be for either of them.

He sits down on the cot centered in the room, frowning further when Sam startles and stifles a whimper. Placing both hands on his knees, Dean smiles softly at his brother. “Hey,” he whispers, “Sam, it's me. It's Dean. I'm not gonna hurt you, okay?” Words don't come easily and he has to pause before he can figure out what else he should say. What do you tell your whacked out little brother who just came back from Lucifer's cage? “You're at Bobby's house. Remember Bobby? He went to get some water.” Yeah, that's definitely what you should say.

Letting his hands come away from his face, Sam stares up at his brother from under his disheveled mop of hair. There is a long, tense moment in which Dean is afraid Sam will start screaming again, but the hysteric response never comes and Sam unfolds his limbs enough to crawl over to the cot. He's hesitant to get onto it, though, staying on the ground and tracing a single finger along the thickly hemmed edge of the fabric.

Dean genuinely smiles. “How about we go upstairs?”

Sam continues to stare at the cot, seemingly fascinated by the stitching.

He tries again. “Can you say something for me, Sammy? You know no one's going to hurt you, right? You're safe here.”

Glancing up, Sam's gaze meets Dean's and then haltingly slides to the door of the panic room. He is silent a while, and Dean has to muster up patience from the very last dregs of his reserves in an effort to allow Sam time to collect his thoughts.

After seconds that pass like hours, Sam finally says, “Water?"

“Yes,” Dean says in a whoosh of breath, “Yes, Sam. Bobby went to get some water. Let's go upstairs, okay? Save the old man's back from having to go down those stairs again.” He grins as he stands, hesitantly reaching his hand out to Sam.

He should have known better though, as Sam cringes away from it immediately.

“Sam,” Dean grumbles, feeling his composure slip away. “It's me and Bobby. No one's going to hit you or beat you or, or...”

A million memories he would have sworn he had forgotten flash within his mind: the pain that ended only to welcome in a new tide of agony, and the rank stench of flesh burning off the bone, and the instruments no human could ever have fathomed to create; all this, juxtaposed over his sweet, intelligent, brave baby brother. He swallows against the bile crawling up his throat and focuses on where they are now and what he has to say.

“Or whatever they did. Okay? You're  _safe_. You're. Not. In. Hell.” He grits his teeth, trying so hard not to yell.

“Withdrawal.”

“What?” Dean barks, taken aback by Sam's blank statement. It's such a stark contrast from the hysteria witnessed earlier.

Looking up at Dean, brow creased in concentration and confusion, he says again, “Withdrawal. Here... I—I remember. Handcuffs...” He brushes his finger over the cot's metal frame.

 _Well_ , Dean thinks sourly,  _it's a start._

* * *

 

It takes some coaxing, but Sam manages the stairs without incident and, though awkward and unsure in his own skin, Sam makes his own way toward the kitchen without Dean's help. If Dean were honest with himself, it hurts a bit not to be able to reach out and touch his brother, just to offer a hand to grasp or a shoulder to lean on. He wants to be there, wants Sam to know he hasn't left – won't leave – but Sam flinches so hard at the slightest, softest of caresses. Dean lets him be, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides. 

Sam's gaze is remote as they walk through the study. He reaches out and runs his hand down the doorjamb, nails catching in the whorls of the wood. Dean watches him curiously, but Sam says nothing to explain his actions and, after a moment or two with his thoughts, he moves on from the door and toward the fireplace. He brushes his hands over everything – any surface that's accessible, his fingers graze over it. Books, shelves, the desk, the couch, the brick mantel... all of it is subject to Sam's passive prodding.

Wistful is the word that bubbles up into Dean's mind as he watches his brother. Never before would he have thought of the word, much less of it applying to his colossus of a brother, but it epitomizes the expression on Sam's face, the movements of his body, the contemplative pout of his bottom lip... Dean smiles softly to himself, thinking of the countless times Sam had been hunched over his laptop late into the dawn with the same expression, chasing after some key piece of information that Dean would never have found on his own.

He misses his brother. 

Suddenly, Sam is right there, right in his face, grinning from ear to ear. It startles him, tripping over his own feet in an effort to put space between them. Sam's smile wavers for only a second, bright eyes glancing down and then back to Dean's face, and he's  _smiling._  Jesus, dimples and all – damn, but he has missed those. Dean can't remember the last time he saw those dimples out in full force like this, bracketing Sam's smile as if to emphasize its importance. 

Sam has said something to him. 

“What?” 

“Army men! We played here, remember? The rug. Spilled... spilled juice. Or, or something. Bobby got mad. But you're a hero, Dean, and saved me. Remember?” 

The memory hits him hard, filling his senses. He had been ten, Sam only just six years old, and Sam had knocked over a glass of apple juice while they were having an epic battle between their army men. The thing was, juice was a bit of a commodity in their lives - expensive and hard to keep without a fridge - so spills were a big deal. Especially so when they were all over your baby-sitter's ancient rug. Bobby hadn't really been all that terribly angry, but poor little Sammy had felt so guilty spilling  _juice_. So Dean had said it was his fault and Bobby had chastised him only as long as it took for Dean to grab some paper towels. 

He nods, slowly, smiling at his crazy, half-hysteric brother. “Yeah, Sammy,” he laughs softly, “I remember.” It's such a random, silly thing to fixate on but it's so encouraging that Dean can't help but feel lifted. He even manages to reach out and put a hand on Sam's arm without him shying away from it. 

“Different though,” Sam says, gazing around, “More books. I haven't seen so many books in...” He trails off and Dean can see the change, physically, as his mind goes somewhere darker.

He has to intervene. Sam was doing so well. “Hey, hey. Don't. Come on, we were getting something to drink, right? Let's go see what Bobby has for us. I bet he'd let you have a beer if you asked nicely.” It's light, easy banter, but Sam isn't countering it now. Dean tries to shuffle his brother along, pushing a little and pulling at his arm, trying to get him to the kitchen. Where was Bobby?

Sam jerks out of his grasp, only to reach out and grab Dean by the shoulders. His grip is tight enough to bruise and Dean almost comments on it, but the look on Sam's face has him silent. He's utterly lucid, expression so determined and focused it catches Dean off-guard. This constant volley of smart Sam, dreamy Sam, and now serious Sam is dizzying.

“What is this?” Sam all but hisses the words, starting intently at Dean. His eyes are dark, partially hidden behind those messy bangs.

Dean stutters, “What do you mean, what is this? It's Bobby's house. It's me, your brother. You're out, Sam!” His voice grows in volume as he speaks, but he can't harness it. The anger bubbles up out of him, consuming every shred of control he has over his actions.

Without thinking, he pushes Sam off him, words surging up and out of his mouth before he can stop them. “I stood up to Lucifer, after you said Yes. I went and found you when no one else had any faith left in you. I had to sit there and play punching bag to that sonuvabitch scumbag, practically  _begging_ you to get a hold of him. And you did – thank God for that! But then... then I had to watch you fall into a hole, Sam. I had to sit there and watch you leave. I had to get up and walk away, knowing I couldn't do anything to get you out, that you were stuck in Hell, in  _Lucifer's cage,_ and I couldn't do a damn thing about it!”

He gasps for breath, shaking from the force of it all. He hasn't let himself think much on the subject over the past year. He drank to make it go away, and when he couldn't drink, he would just push the thoughts to the back of his mind until he  _could_ drink.

Sam still hasn't responded, hasn't moved from the spot Dean pushed him to. Not quite out of words yet, Dean keeps going. “A year, Sam. A  _year_  without you. I mean... well, whatever. It wasn't you. I had a chance to get your soul out of that cage, and I damn well took it. Tell me you wouldn't have done the same.” A silence settles over them, in which he sighs and shakes his head. “Damn it, this... It wasn't a mistake but hell, this is not what I thought would happen.” He laughs humorlessly. “I don't know what I thought would happen.”

“I'm not – this isn't –“ Sam stumbles through his thoughts. He looks confused, then hostile, then lost and so terribly young and helpless that it breaks Dean's heart. He struggles with the need to pull his brother back into his arms, hold him tight until this is all just some laughable memory. No matter how much he wants to, though, he knows it isn't what Sam needs, nor probably what he wants.

Sam's fingers thread through his own hair as he turns and turns, looking around the room and at everything in it. He tugs at his hair, grimacing at something more than the physical pain. Dean takes a step toward him, reaching out, but Sam quickly moves away, barely keeping his balance as he trips over his own feet.

“I thought,” he whispers, “this was a trick... You always liked to use Dean against me.” His hands fall limply to his sides, gaze settling on the top of the doorway behind Dean. “He.  _He_ always liked.. to...  _He_  did.”

Dean stares as his brother tests the words on his tongue, fingers brushing over his own lips as if they sting with the sudden revelation. Before Dean even knows what's happening, Sam spins around and dashes through the kitchen. The sound of Bobby shouting and the front door groaning as it's swung open too quickly make Dean's heart race with panic. He chases after his brother, paying the older man's shouts no mind.

The late evening sun makes the Impala gleam, all sleek curves and sharp angles, and the light reflects opaquely off her windows. The air is thick and still, the only noise coming from the soft hum of cicadas off in the distance. Sam hasn't gone far, just out to the front of Bobby's house, in front of their car.

“Sam?” Dean doesn't expect an answer and isn't surprised when Sam is silent. As Dean comes close, slowly but noisily so as not to startle his brother, he notices that Sam's shoulders are shaking, trembling with some emotion that Dean can't see. “Sammy? Hey, what's...” He stops short, halting just a few feet from his brother's back.

Everything coalesces into one singular, mutely deafening moment that leaves Dean breathless as both of Sam's hands lift up to rest on the roof of the car, feather light and gentle like she was made of glass. His long fingers caress the sleek curve of the door frame, ghosting over the side mirror and handle. Dean can't see his face, but the subtle shifts of Sam's head tell him he's looking at every inch of her with the same cataloging attention he had the things in Bobby's study.

Dean is so keyed up, so acutely focused on his brother that, even over the incessant white noise of the cicadas, the choked, whimpering, near-silent noise that Sam makes rings loud and clear in Dean's ears.

Turning around, hands lingering on the car's frame, Sam looks up at his brother and smiles, wasted and feeble. When he speaks, his voice is the same broken whisper but still just as audible to Dean's senses. “It's real...” It sounds almost like a question, but there is too much belief behind it.

Sam's knees give out and he's suddenly on the ground, dirt scuffing his jeans and covering his hands.

“Whoa,” says Dean, closing the distance between them and kneeling next to his brother. Sam's head is limp on his neck, unable to keep itself up and focusing on any one thing. Deja vu washes over Dean and he stamps down the emotions brought with it. He puts a steadying hand on Sam's shoulder, expecting a flinch but none come, so he reaches out and cups Sam's jaw in his other hand, trying to get Sam to focus on him.

“Hey, Sam? Sam. Come on, get with it. I told you, you're safe. What's...?” But he can't finish. He doesn't know what to ask – What's going on? Whats wrong? What does he need? What can Dean do? There's too much.

Sam laughs, a haunted bass within his chest. His head feels heavy in Dean's hand, almost embracing the soft contact of his palm to Sam's cheek. “It's... I never thought I'd...” He sobers quickly, looking up at Dean. “What did you do?” And Sam is suddenly angry, reaching up and fisting Dean's shirt tight around his collar.

“What-- Sam, I didn't--”

“Dean. What did you  _do_?”

Well, there was the Sam he knew.

“Me and Death--”

“ _Death_? The  _horseman_?”

Definitely the Sam he knew.

“It's done, Sam. Over. Slate's wiped clean.”

Sam stares at him for a long while, gaze intent and brow furrowed. His breath comes in huge puffs between them, making his bangs swing and tickle Dean's cheek.

With a deep breath, Dean says again, “It's  _done_ , Sam. You're back. I'm here. No strings.”

It takes Sam a few moments to process the words but then, with a new burst of panicked momentum, Sam's face crumples and tears well up in his eyes, and he starts babbling.

“Dean-- did stuff-- couldn't stop it – I didn't – I-I'm sorry...” and he just keeps going, words tumbling over themselves faster than his tongue can form the syllables.

Dean shushes him, reaching up and smoothing Sam's hair back and out of his eyes. He pulls his brother closer and embraces him tightly, clenching his jaw against the flood of overwhelming, conflicting emotions. “Shh, Sam. It's okay. I know,” he whispers into the mop of sandy curls that has all but mocked him in the past few months.

Sam's arms wrap tight around him, nearly crushing the air from his lungs, and all Dean can do is hold on. He tightens his hands in the back of Sam's shirt, pressing his nose to the crook of his shoulder. He can feel the stutter-step hiccup of Sam's ribs, the little show of how much he's trying to keep from crying. When he feels Sam press his face into his shoulder, Dean knows it for what it is.

He would make this right. He had to. Sam... Sam just needed time to adjust. He had been down there for  _centuries_. Of course he would be a bit perturbed after coming back... But he would be okay. Dean would make sure of that.

“You're safe now, Sam,” he continues to say against the sweat-damp skin of Sam's neck, “You're safe... I gotcha, Sammy. You're safe.”

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later, Dean is outside working on the Impala while Sam helps Bobby research some ancient oriental creature that another hunter is after in Wyoming.

Today had been a good day, allowing them the privilege of an intelligible Sam. He hadn't cried over the bacon and eggs this morning, though he certainly turned his nose up and glared at Dean for eating it, opting for toast and some fruit himself. Sam was articulate and, though a little jumpy at loud or sudden noises, almost completely like his old self. Dean felt rather positive that things were going to be okay for them. Sam had just been a bit shook up after coming back from... there, and just needed time to adjust.

Dean is outside, underneath his girl and feeling fine about leaving Sam with Bobby for the afternoon to do geeky research, when the screen door of the porch swings open with a bang. He barely has time to turn his head before he hears Bobby's voice, harsh and panicked. “Dean!”

Dean's insides go ice-cold, fear gripping him tight and refusing to let go.  _Sonuvabitch_ , he knew this was too good to be true.

“Yeah!” He calls, wriggling out from underneath the car, “What is it?”

“What do you think it is, Idjit?” There's a bite to Bobby's words that has nothing to do with anger and more to do with fear.

Dean dusts his hands off as he dashes to the door, his mind a constant mantra of  _no, no, no, not Sammy, no, no, no_.... As always, though, his pleas go unanswered.

Sam's on the floor, a priceless book casually thrown to the floor next to him. Dean drops down next to his shaking brother. Sam's eyes are half open, seeing something only he has eyes for. He's flushed, sweat making the hair around his temples cling to the skin. Dean knows this only too well and, with a reserved sort of stoicism, he pulls Sam's head into his lap and waits.

Bobby's hovering, mouth working tightly, not knowing what to do with himself.

“Bobby,” Dean says, voice strained, “Why don't you get him a glass of water and something for a bad headache, hmm?”

He nods, turns to leave and then pauses. Turning back to Dean, he asks, “This isn't...”

Dean doesn't say anything, but Bobby gets the answer. He leaves without another word.

His brother shudders beneath his hands, inaudible sounds getting stuck at the back of his throat and Dean starts to worry that Sam might choke on his own spit.

Leaning forward until his forehead touches Sam's, Dean whispers, “Come on, Sam. Not this again... come on, wake up.”

After a few seconds that take hours to pass, Sam all but flings himself out of Dean's grasp. He rolls against the rug, coughing harshly and grasping at his heart, hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

“Sammy? Sam!” He reaches out and shakes Sam's shoulder, trying to get his attention.

With a visible effort, Sam drags his eyes to Dean and nods.  _I'm okay_.

Dean grimaces, not liking that his brother isn't actually speaking to him. He gets his hands under both of Sam's shoulders and helps him up off the floor. Sam collapses onto the couch, head tilting back against the cushion of it. Dean's itching to talk about this. He knows what it is, there's no denying it. The question is why – why the hell is this happening  _now_?

Silence falls between them, Dean staring intently at his brother while Sam stares at the carpet, rubbing incessantly at his chest. Eventually Sam whispers, “I don't know why.”

Dean nods slowly; he'd expected that. “A vision?”

Sam's silence speaks volumes.

With a hiss of frustration, Dean asks, “What about? I mean, it's not like old yellow eyes is running around anymore. This shouldn't be happening, Sam!”

Sam flinches at the volume of Dean's voice, and he raises a hand, pleading for him to lower it. “I know, Dean. I know. It doesn't make sense but...” Sam eyes are vacant for a moment, reliving something, and then he looks away, over his shoulder through the window, a ghost of a whimper filling the air.

Dean presses, “Well? What'd you see?” He barely has enough patience to wait for Sam to sort through his emotions; the panic and fear he has for his brother override any semblance of tact.

“All those kids, the one's like me, but.. but I saw them – I  _felt_  them--” He chokes off, gripping at his chest again and doubling over.

“Sam!” Dean's got both hands on his brother before Sam's head even starts to fall, dropping down next to him on the couch. Its amazing how tightly Sam can fold himself sometimes; he's flush against his own thighs and whimpering into his knees.

Dean tries to be a little quieter, reigning in his desperation. “Sam? What's wrong?”

“I can feel it,” he whines, voice wrought with agony. There are tears tracking down his face – Dean can only just see them through the mess of hair. “Him. I can feel him... Hahh, Dean it hurts...” He whimpers, really  _whimpers_ , and Dean almost wants to cry with him, it sounds so hurtful.

He hates these visions. In all the years they've been hunting together, Dean always feared they would come back. When Sam was little and had a nightmare, Dean knew just how to curl up on the mattress with him and rub a gentle hand along his back until he fell back to sleep. When Sam came home with a black-eye, Dean knew to get the ice pack and listen and tell Sam how awesome he was for not killing the punk who did it. When Sam told Dean that he had won a scholarship,  _a full-ride, Dean!_ , he knew how to smile and encourage him,  _that's amazing, Sammy!_ , and stay strong because Sam needed him to be there, because Dad wouldn't be.

But these visions? There was nothing Dean could do. Sam would get wrapped up in them so tightly, Dean worried he would never get his brother back. The pain, the confusion, the shame and the guilt he could see behind his brother's eyes... there was nothing Dean could do for it. He  _hated_  it.

His brother trembles now, doubled over on the couch, and cries as the pain wraps around him and immobilizes him. When Dean tries to get Sam to sit up, his brother just whines further, saying something too broken and agonized to understand. Dean can feel his eyes pinch, the thick weight of tears sticking in his throat. He can't do this again.

Heavy footsteps sound and then Bobby's charging into the room, glass in one hand and a plastic bottle in the other. His steps falter a beat when he sees Sam's position on the couch, but he continues forward. “Here,” he says, handing both over to Dean, who takes them without comment. “Says to take two but...” A quick glance at Sam, “Better make it three.”

Dean nods curtly and shakes the pills out, passing the bottle back to Bobby and turning to his brother. “Sam? Sam, come on, sit up a bit, okay? This will help.” Sam whimpers and mumbles thickly, shuddering through aftershocks of whatever it was he experienced. He takes a few seconds, breathing deep, but whatever was hurting him, it recedes and Sam's breathing slows.

Though he sits up, he keeps his head hung. His hair hides his face as he reaches a blind hand out for the pills.

“Sam?”

Receiving no answer, he just hands the pills over, waiting for Sam to scoop them into his mouth before handing over the glass of water. With the pills knocked back, Sam hands the the glass back to Dean and slides side ways, lying out on the couch.

Dean looks to Bobby, brow knit in concern. “Sam--”

“Dean,” Bobby interrupts, his voice harsh, “Let's leave the boy to get some rest.” There is no room for discussion in his tone.

With a sigh, Dean gets up and follows Bobby out of the room and into the kitchen.

“Bobby,” Dean growls in a half-whisper, “I don't like leaving him in there alone.”

“I'll keep an eye on him. You get your ass back out there and finish working on your car.” Dean shakes his head, starting to say something else but Bobby stops him again. “Dean, I mean it. Get out there. The boy needs a moment to himself. You saw the way he was shaking and..... He needs to rest. We can sit him down and talk about it later.”

Chewing at his bottom lip in an attempt to bite back any sharp retorts, Dean storms out of the kitchen and into the backyard again. He loses himself in the Impala, tuning her up and cleaning her off. She's sleek and shiny by the time the screen door swings open again, this time with less force. Looking up from the hood of the car, Dean sees Sam step hesitantly out into the backyard. He looks awkward, rubbing at his arm in a childlike fashion.

“Can I come out here?” Sam calls over to him.

Dean rolls his eyes, not looking up. “Free country, Sam.”

“You're mad at me.” Dean feels a pang of guilt at the softness of Sam's tone. Looking up, he finds his brother walking towards him looking much like a scolded puppy.

“No,” Dean sighs, throwing the rag he was using onto the hood, “I'm not mad. Just worried. Man, you... That crap shouldn't be happening anymore.”

Sam nods, still rubbing at his arm, and looks away.

“Well,” says Dean, “Are you ever going to tell me what you saw? I take it we don't have to go save anyone since you decided to nap.”

“It hurt,” he whispers by way of explanation.

“ _What_  hurt, Sam? You're gonna have to tell me eventually, come on.”

“I saw a kid, one like me, die. I saw his death but... Dean, I  _felt_ it, too.” A grimace pulls at Sam's mouth, his eyes downcast in something akin to shame and grief.

Dean steps forward, trying to offer Sam some semblance of strength in his presence. “Felt it? Like...”

“Like I felt him  _die_ , Dean! How else do I have to say it? I saw... I saw that kid, Scott... Kelley? No, Carey. Remember? The one who had the freaking Azazel shrine in his closet?”

“Yeah. I remember him.” He rankles, thoughts of a certain psychotic hunter filling his mind. “Gordon got him, right?”

Sam nods, “I saw him die... but I also felt it. I... I was him. In the vision, I was Scott. Got knifed.”

Dean thinks back to the way Sam had been clutching at his chest, coughing. He frowns further, seeing the way Sam is beating himself up for having the vision in the first place. “Alright,” he says, “It's alright, Sam. I mean, if this is how it is... at least we don't have to worry about having to hightail it somewhere. We just-- well, we just keep some Percocet on hand, right?” He tries to laugh, but it isn't very convincing.

Sam, ever the good sport, nods and smiles.

They'd figure this out. They would... they had to.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _This is unwise.”_

“ _I heard you the first five times.”_

“ _Dean, you don't know what--”_

“ _You know I've about had it up to_ here _with everyone telling me how much I don't know! What I_ do _know is that my_ brother _is in_ Hell _. He is trapped down there with two pissed off archangels and who knows what they've been doing to him.”_

“ _That is precisely my point. His soul is damaged, Dean. There_ will _be complications.”_

 

* * *

 

Sam just gets worse.

Only four days after getting his soul back, Sam continues to be plagued by the visions. Every kid they have ever met, along with a whole multitude of many they never have, dies in Sam's mind. It leaves him hollow. Sam is a shell of himself, lost and confused and easily upset. Any progress Sam had started to make in those first forty-eight hours is now history; he's broken and struggling to keep himself present.

The days blur together in Dean's mind; he can't keep track of who Sam has seen, what Sam has said, when he did or did not do something. It's all one big mess. He wants to make things right, needs to structure them, but they're both just treading water... and pretty badly at that.

Yesterday hadn't been so bad – one tiny little peek at some kid getting his throat sliced open, some coughing and retching on Sam's part, and then they had spent the day in silence and a decent semblance of calm.

Today, though... today, has been a challenge. There have been no visions, but his brother has been begging to “move” all day, and Dean doesn't know what to do to placate him. He wouldn't eat breakfast that morning, he has shown no signs of interacting functionally for the day, and to make matters worse, he's babbling even  _more_  about needing to move now that they are getting ready for bed.

Sam has Dean's wrist caught between both of his hands, tugging with all his weight toward the door of their bedroom. “Dean,” he whines, “Gotta go. Need to go. Can't stop.  _Can't_ stop.”

Dean frowns, pulling back just as hard, away from Sam. “We need to go to sleep, Sam.”

With a resigned huff, Sam lets go of Dean. He turns away, his head lilting in one direction before the rest of his body thinks to follow suit. “Always moving... always.... turning and moving and breathing.  _Living_.” The last is said directly at Dean, with a purely focused gaze that challenges him to say something contrariwise. “Need to move, Dean... tarmac and grease...”

“What?”

“Moving, Dean,” Sam says in a huff, shaking his head like he can't believe Dean doesn't understand him. “Need to keep moving and... and... Hnn. Keep—ah!”

Dean sees it coming before Sam even starts to be incoherent: the pained crease in his brow, the subtle change in his gait, and then, of course, the way he subconsciously reached for his temple, as if touching it would somehow stop the oncoming rush of sight.

Dean is right there, reaching out and gripping Sam under his arms to keep him from falling like a rag doll to the floor. “Alright,” he grits out, “Alright, Sam, just... just breathe. 'S good... 's real good.” Sam whimpers in response and Dean has to take a moment, closing his eyes and forcing the frustrated sorrow deep down.

With a deep breath, Dean shuffles them backward to the bed. He slides Sam's body onto the mattress, and frowns: Sam had said 'tarmac and grease'. There was only one explanation to that combination – being out on the road, hunting like they used to.

Dean folds a leg underneath himself and sits beside Sam's stretched out form, running an idle hand through his hair. Sam jerks and shudders next to him, eyelashes fluttering as his eyes move rapidly beneath. Dean can only imagine what he must be reliving...

He's used to this now. Part of the shock is gone and done with, there have been so many visions in the last few days. It's getting to be a near-hourly occurrence – today was an anomaly.

He wishes he could do more for his brother, but Sam's deteriorating quickly, mentally as well as physically. He's lost so much weight because he refuses to eat; Dean and Bobby eat steak while Sam eyes it with trepidation and continues munching on carrots. Dean's starting to think it's something about the blood that upsets Sam.

With a shuddering gasp, Sam comes back to himself. It takes just a second for him to blink before his face sags and Dean can see the waterworks start. Sam barely manages to keep his composure most any time of the day, let alone when he's coming back from experiencing yet  _another_ death.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, reaching out, his eyes searching the room. He looks directly at Dean and yet doesn't seem him. Dean needs another moment to press feelings aside; there will be time for that later... right now, Sam needs him.

“Right here, Sammy.” He reaches out and grasps the hand Sam has stretched out.

Like a lighthouse leading a lost ship, Sam's eyes focus on their hands and then follow back up to Dean's face. He smiles softly, lost and unsure and needing reassurance.

Dean asks, “You wanna talk about it?”

Sometimes Sam gives details whether he asks or not. Sometimes he refuses to speak about it – there are some visions that Dean still doesn't know who or what Sam saw. Other times Sam just needs a reminder that he can speak... something about the Cage made him forget that base function of his vocal chords.

Sam shakes his head and says, “Two walked in. Only one walked out.”

Dean nods, even though he doesn't really understand the meaning.

Turning onto his side, Sam shifts closer to Dean. He's still got a vice-like grip on Dean's hand. “Hmmm... head hurts.”

 _Surprise, surprise._  It always does after these things.

“Okay,” says Dean, trying to pry Sam's fingers off his own, “Why don't you get under the covers and I'll go get you something, hmm?”

Sam nods softly, letting Dean's hand go.

When Dean comes back, Sam is in bed, waiting for him. He has his eyes closed, but he smiles softly at his footsteps and it warms Dean to know Sam still trusts him.

“Here,” he says, handing the pills and a glass of water to his brother.

Sam scrunches his nose when he sees a third, unfamiliar pill. He gives Dean a glance up from underneath his brow.

“It's a Xanax,” Dean sighs, “It'll help get you to sleep quicker. Less pain.”

Apparently pleased by the answer, Sam knocks the pills back and then settles back into bed.

Dean sits next to his brother again, touching his hair softly. “You want to go for a drive in the morning?”

Sam's hazel eyes blink open, brighter and more lively than before. “Really?” He's dimpling.

“Yeah,” says Dean, barely able to get the words out. “Of course. Wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it, man.”

Sam nods vigorously in response. “Love her.”

And for once, Dean actually gets what he means because, yeah, Dean loves the Impala, too. She's saved their asses more times than he can count, after all.

“Alright. Then it's settled. We'll take a drive into town, hmm? Get a burger at a local diner?”

Sam looks so excited, it's like he's 14 again and taking down his first werewolf. Dean smiles, sets a firm hand on his shoulder, and starts to stand but Sam tugs at his wrist.

“Can you stay, tonight? I... it was...”

“A bad one?” Dean knows; Sam wouldn't ask if it hadn't been a rough vision. Sure enough, his brother nods, looking ashamed and humiliated. “Of course I can stay, Sam. All you gotta do is ask.” So he sits down, leaning back against the wall, and keeps his brother company. Sam's head is turned toward him, nose pressed against his side. Eventually the puffs of breath warming his side slow and grow longer, deeper; the Xanax helped.

Dean stays there for a while, thinking and, intermittently, crying. He never meant for Sam to get hurt like this. His brother is so much... different. There are times where he sees the ghost of Sam: a smirk, a shy grin, the bitchy attitude or the implacable frustration. Dean thinks it wouldn't be so difficult to deal with Sam the way he is, if it weren't for those little tidbits of his former self that come out to mock Dean when he least expects it. It's so unfair – the glimpses happen rarely enough that they still surprise him but often enough that he keeps wondering why he can't get used to them. It's torture.

Now Sam wants to go driving? When Dean thinks back over the confusing analogies his brother posed earlier in the day, he finally sees the puzzle's picture. Sam was talking about how much he loves the Impala, how he needs to be moving, in the car, at greasy diners and dingy motels. Does he actually miss the life? Dean didn't think him even capable of knowing what was missing. Then again...

Dean leaves Sam to sleep, light on his feet as he walks down the stairs and into the living room. He fixes himself an Irish coffee, sans cream as Bobby's kitchen is lacking, but he stirs in plenty of sugar and maybe a little more whiskey than necessary. He sips at that for a while, thumbing through books left behind by Bobby. It's late and he should be sleeping, but his mind is too wired and Sam will be up again in a little while, anyway.

“Cas,” he whispers, glancing upward before shutting his eyes, “I know you're probably busy and... don't really want to talk to me right now – didn't really part on the best of terms...  _Ahem_ , but I could really use your help right now.” He sighs, knowing how pathetic he sounds.

He waits, glancing around himself, until he's convinced Castiel isn't going to show up. Dean has called him a few times since their last meeting but to no avail. The little bitch was throwing a tantrum.

“You should not be drinking coffee at this hour.”

Dean coughs, sputtering as he chokes on his own spit. Castiel, ever stoic, stands beside him with a curious concentration in his expression.

“Jesus, Cas!” Castiel starts to say something, but Dean quickly clarifies, “Figure of speech.”

Castiel nods. “Why did you call me?”

Dean shrugs shyly, taking another sip of his coffee before saying, “It's Sam... he's back, but.” He doesn't know how to keep going. What he wants to say is just too preposterous, too heartbreaking... just too  _too_.

“But there are complications?” There's a mocking behind his tone that makes Dean hackle.

“Yeah,” Dean growls, putting his drink down on the desk, “He's having visions, Cas.”

That gets his attention. “Visions? Of what?”

“The other psychic kids. Each one of them. Dying. He feels it, Cas. Literally. He's them; whatever kid he has a vision of, he's that kid and they all die. He has to live through that... over and over... and I can't fix it.” The last is nothing more than a soft breath of admission.

“I tried to warn you of this.” Castiel shakes his head, looking down at the floor, shoulders slumped. There's nothing taunting in his voice. No I-told-you-so hiding behind his words. He's just weary and glum. “His soul is damaged, Dean. There... there was nothing to be done to fix it before he came back, and nothing can be done now.”

Dean stares at him defiantly. “I'll figure something out,” he says gruffly, emotion hindering his voice.

Castiel nods silently, humoring him. After a long moment, in which Dean goes back to his drink, he asks, “Where is Sam, now?”

“Upstairs. Sleeping,” says Dean, nodding in that direction.

“He sleeps?”

Dean regards him over the brim of his cup. “Yes, Cas. He sleeps.”  _Duh._  He takes one more sip before setting the cup back down. “Granted, it takes a Xanax to put the kid down most of the time, but he does manage to get some sleep... just not much. Thus the...” He waves at the cup, not finishing his statement.

“And you don't sleep?” Except it's not quite a question.

Dean shrugs. “Sam will wake up in another hour... hour and a half, tops. He had a vision before bed – one he wouldn't tell me about. So, I figure he's likely going to wake up from a nightmare and want company. I figure, might as well stay up.”

Castiel nods again.

“There's got to be  _something_ , Cas.  _Anything_.” He stares at his friend, willing him to supply a magic answer, but Castiel simply shakes his head, hands out at his side in supplication. “Damn it! I won't give up on him!”

“Dean?”

Both men turn to look over at the base of the stairs where Sam is standing, clutching at the railing.

“Hey, Sammy,” says Dean. “Sorry. I didn't mean to shout. Go back to bed, I'll be there soon.”

Sam chews at his lip, nails  _scratch, scratch, scratch_ ing over the worn wood of the banister. “You're angry with me, again,” he whispers, looking down.

“No,” Dean pleads, “No, Sam. I'm not. Just frustrated with Cas, here.” He gives Castiel a conspiratorial grin. “I'll be right up, okay? Go get some sleep. I'll be quiet.”

Sam nods, though obviously unconvinced. He gives Castiel a quick glance and a short, halting wave, then turns and goes back up the stairs.

“Your brother is different,” Castiel states once Sam is gone.

“Jenkies, Scooby.”

“Who-- never mind. I simply mean that... he's different than I anticipated. Much calmer than I would have thought.”

“You mean you thought he'd be  _worse_?” Dean struggles to keep his voice from rising again. “Christ, Cas. He's a mess. Half the time I can't understand a damn thing he says. He puts words together that would never, ever make any sense. Not even on a damn SAT question!” He's shouting but it's hushed.

Castiel stands stoically, thinking, but he offers nothing.

“I'll figure something out,” says Dean, “He's just... well, he dies five or six times a day. How do you think you'd feel?” He almost laughs, turning to grin sardonically at his friend... but Castiel is gone. “Yeah. Right.”

He downs the last of his now-cold coffee, grimacing at the sudden burn of whiskey. He puts the dish in the sink and heads back up the stairs.

There's a movement above him, a soft padding sound. When he looks up, he can just make out the subtle swing of the bedroom door. Sam had been listening.  _Sonuvabitch_.

 

* * *

 

The following afternoon, Sam's eyes are trained on the sleek form of the car, staring intently and sadly. Every few seconds a glimmer of fondness sparks behind his eyes. With hesitation in his movements, Sam reaches out and ghosts a touch over the hood. Dean eases the grip he had on Sam's shoulder, letting his brother stand on his own.

His eyes narrowing, pout forming in the line of his brow, Sam puts both hands on her frame. His big hands span the whole seam of the door along the roof, gripping it tightly. His eyes take in the whole of her and he breathes deep, leaning in closer and closer until he's almost flush up against her, his breath condensing in a small patch along the window.

“You know,” Dean says softly, “You could get in, if you'd like.”

Sam opens his eyes and gazes over at his brother. If Dean didn't know any better, he would have thought Sam looked a little annoyed at having been interrupted. It is a shadow of the bitchy glare Sam used to give him, but just the very notion that the expression somehow survived the Apocalypse makes Dean's heart ache. He'll never get used to it.

Still running his hands over her in near reverence, Sam slowly reaches for the handle and pulls. It gives way and, as the door groans open, Sam closes his eyes and  _smiles_. It's soft, close-lipped, but it is so utterly pure that the ache in Dean's chest grows ten-fold. Sam moves and folds his long limbs into the passenger side, reacquainting himself with the car and saying little things like  _hey, girl_  and _miss me?_

Sucking in a deep breath and fingering the keys, Dean shuts the passenger door and makes his way behind the wheel. Sam is leaning his head back against the leather of the chair with his eyes closed and, for once, an expression of perfect calm.

“You okay, Sam?”

He opens his eyes, glancing over at Dean and nods. “Continuing the legacy. Work's never done...” Then he's quiet, wriggling against the seat as if he is trying to cozy up to the unyielding leather.

Dean frowns, unsure what to make of the response, but Sam has calmed significantly compared to the recent fits of anxiety and anger; Dean's not about to jinx it. He turns the engine over and they leave Bobby's house for the diner.

The drive is mostly silent but at one point Dean reaches out to turn the radio on and Sam snorts, grinning ear to ear. The grin is infectious and has Dean laughing under his breath, which turns into Sam laughing out loud, which becomes a full-force giggle fest between the two of them, accented by Van Halen's guitar riffs.

Thirty minutes later, Sam has his mouth around a thick bite of chicken sandwich, moaning, “Ohm muh gawwnn.”

Dean snickers around his own mouthful. “Careful there. Don't want you to choke on all that meat.”

Swallowing with only minimal difficulty – it  _was_ a really big bite – Sam fixes his brother with his usual glare. “Ha, ha.” Turning back to his food, he smiles. “I don't remember the last time I had one of these...” Sam pauses, mid-way to another bite, eyes going glassy.

 _Damn it,_  Dean curses to himself. Sam had been doing really well since taking the drive in the Impala. The car seemed to ground him, give him an anchor to reality. It made him a hell of a lot more lucid, anyway: speaking in whole sentences. He had told the waitress exactly what he'd wanted... well, he'd said  _red stuff_  instead of ketchup and  _extra rabbit food_  instead of lettuce, but Dean figured it was an improvement that he even  _spoke_  to someone other than him and Bobby. Not to mention, he was actually eating a form of meat. Maybe it was just red meat that bothered him.

Now Sam looks withdrawn, his sandwich forgotten on his plate and a soft pout forming on his lips. Dean does the only thing he can think of – he reaches across the table and steals four of Sam's fries, stuffing his cheeks full with them and making a self-satisfied smirk at his further-pouting brother.

“Hey,” Sam whines, “Get your own!”

Dean smiles. “Nah. I like yours better. ...you can have some of mine, though.”

It gets Sam smiling and focused on the present. They continue to eat in companionable silence, ragging on one another every few minutes, and it's almost like all the crap from the past three years never even happened.

When Dean tells Sam to go wait in the car while he pays, his younger brother glances to the waitress, then back at Dean, and raises an eyebrow.  _Really?_

 _Shut up_ , Dean doesn't say as he smacks Sam in the arm.

With a sheepish grin, Sam takes the keys and walks out, shaking his head as if he still can't believe what a horn-dog his brother is.

The waitress pops her bubblegum at the back of teeth, smiling and twirling her hair, as Dean pays. He's leaning on the counter, giving her that sultry smile that's spread more legs than he can count, when there's some commotion behind him, making him turn toward the door.

A girl rushes in, eyes wide with panic. “Call 911!”

Fear grips Dean tight around his heart, refusing to let go. He crosses the diner in all of two seconds, gets out the door and closes the space between himself and his brother, who is propped up against the car. There's a puddle of sick on the concrete where Sam must have thrown up, and Dean can see the way his brother is still shaking from it.

He's flushed and sweating, eyes scrunched up tight in a pained grimace, but he manages to look at Dean and reach out to him. “Dean,” he starts to say but loses most of the word to a deep groan, head tilting back and his body lurching dangerously.

“Whoa. Easy, easy,” Dean murmurs, reaching out and bracing his brother. He manages to keep Sam on his feet, but only barely, and shuffles him closer to the passenger's door, careful to avoid the mess near their feet.

He needs to get Sam in the car, resting, and back to Bobby's. He's going to be in pain and paranoid for the rest of the day, and Dean doesn't want to give Sam's fear any more fuel than it already has. “I gotcha, Sam. Come on. Hey! Hey, come on, Sam, in the car....”

He realizes then that they've made a scene; people surround them, some with cell phones out, ready to call the authorities. Dean just smiles and nods a wave to them muttering that everything's okay, nothing to see here, move along ( _you vultures_ ).

Sam moans obscenely as Dean drops him into the passenger's seat. Dean chews at his lip, debating whether it's worth going back inside to get his change or not. When Sam reaches out and grips Dean's wrist hard enough to make the bones grind together, he figures he can live without the five-and-some change.

Dean high-tails it out of the diner parking lot and heads back toward Bobby's, swearing every dirty word he can inside his head while his brother lies limply to his right.

“Dea....” It's a bare whisper and Dean has to reach out and turn the radio off to hear. “Dean, where...?”

“Bobby's,” he says softly, matching Sam's pitch. “Just going back to Bobby's, Sam.”

“No!” The shout nearly makes Dean swerve onto the shoulder.

“What?”

Sam reaches out to him, gripping his arm and glancing up at him from beneath a tangle of hair, eyes squinting from the light filtering through the windows. “I said no. Don't want to go back. Need to be moving... Dean, need to keep going. Can't stop. Can't stop.”

Those two and a half words have haunted Dean from the moment Sam came back. What the hell can't Sam stop doing? He hasn't had the nerve to ask.

“Well, what do you want me to do, Sammy?”

“Just... the Life.” Something about the weight in Sam's voice makes the word a proper noun in Dean's mind.

Dean pauses, taking his foot off the gas for a moment. “You... you want to hunt again?”

Sam nods, eyes closing and head dipping down with the movement.

“Like... moldy motel rooms and greasy diner food and stitching each other up?”

Again, Sam nods, shifting closer to Dean so he can lay his head on his shoulder. “Yes, Dean.”

So Dean makes a mental note to call Bobby, and turns onto I-229.

 

* * *

 

Sam and Dean are sitting at the small table in their newest dive. It's been a week since leaving Bobby's and they have their clothes, their weapons, and a good chunk of cash thanks to Sam playing Rain Man last night at a pool hall. Sam was just as brilliant as ever – he just talks a little funny now, and has some trouble concentrating sometimes; the poor sods never saw it coming.

Dean devours his breakfast as Sam picks at a bagel, too busy focusing on the laptop in front of him to eat as enthusiastically as his brother. Dean's eyes are on his bacon and egg sandwich when he hears a sudden wet and halted noise from in front of him. He looks up to see Sam dropping the bagel he had just taken a bite from, eyes wide and frightened as his hand reaches up to lay on the base of his neck.

 _He's choking_.

“Sam,” Dean says, voice deep and worried. “Sam? Hey.”

But Sam's not making any noises. He's not coughing, he's not gasping – he's literally a hi-def silent movie in front of Dean. What's worse is that Sam's eyes are glassy, unfocused, and start to roll into the back of his head, body shuddering to the side and collapsing out of the chair.

“Damn it.” Dean's up and by his brother's side quicker than lightening.

He can feel panic bubble up inside him as he watches his brother shudder and twitch – s _eizing –_ on the thread-bare carpet of the motel. But he's still eerily silent. Dean's hands are tied. He's afraid to try and get the food out of Sam's throat, afraid that Sam will choke further or that he'll mess up and push the piece even further down. He's scared that Sam will bite down and break his fingers – unlikely, but a scary thought that only fuels his panic further.

Above all of those fears, though, is the dread that if he doesn't do  _something_ , Sam will likely die from asphyxiation or bite through his own tongue and bleed out. Either way, Sam  _will_ die if Dean doesn't act now.

Gritting his teeth, he pushes Sam's shaking body onto his back.  _Only_   _for a second, just for a minute..._  It's damn difficult with his brother convulsing so violently. With only a moment's indulgence in humility at what he's about to do, Dean straddles his brother's middle, pinning his arms close to his body, in an attempt to still his movements. It doesn't help much, but it does keep his brother centered to one spot and facing up.

He grips Sam's jaw in one hand, fingers clenching into the soft spot between his mandibles, and pries his mouth open; it hurts as Sam's teeth try so hard to bite down, catching his fingers in the vice, but Dean keeps his hand where it is.

He sighs with relief when he can actually look down and  _see_ the piece of food stuck just at the back of Sam's mouth. The relief disappears when he realizes Sam's skin is losing some serious color... he's almost bluish, and now that he thinks about it, Sam's ribs aren't contracting...  _son of a bitch, come on_ ,  _just do it already!_ He reaches down, using his longest finger to swipe at the back of Sam's mouth. His finger nail catches in the soft texture of the bread, but Sam's gag reflex reacts and his tongue pushes hard against his finger, making him lose that hold.

“Oh, come on,” Dean growls.

Sam shakes beneath Dean's hands, irises barely visible they have rolled so far back in his head. His feet kick an erratic beat against the floor as his body jerks and spasms.

Dean tries again, risking the thumb of his other hand to press down on Sam's tongue. It's awkward and a tight fit – and  _damn_ , Sam's got some sharp teeth – but Dean manages to catch the piece one more time, raking at the back of Sam's throat and likely hurting the tissue, but he gets the piece up and into Sam's mouth. He grabs it, throws it onto the floor, ceases straddling him, and stares down at his brother... his non-responsive, not-breathing, still-twitching brother.

Sam's eyes are closed, lips slack, and the only movement coming from him is the occasional spasm that makes his arms and legs tense, his teeth gritting together. With a glance to Sam's chest, dread sinks heavy into Dean's stomach: Sam's still not breathing.

“No,” whispers Dean, “No, come on, come on. Wake up, Sam....” He scoots closer, pushing on his brother's chest, shaking him gently. “Come on. You're stronger than this... come on, please.” He can't have just gone through all that, just to have Sam asphyxiate anyway. It's not fair... it's not right...

“Please,” he says again, pressing his forehead to Sam's chest. His brother has gone still now, no more quakes or shudders. “Please, Sam... Sam... just – come on.”

But Sam doesn't move.

“ _Damn it_!” He smacks Sam's chest hard, tears filling his eyes, “Wake up! Sammy, please. Breathe! Come  _on_!”

It's a long moment before he realizes, through blurred vision, that his brother  _is_ breathing. At some point, Sam's chest started moving again. There was no grand gasp of life, or his eyes opening suddenly and looking around in confusion... there was nothing. Dean, sniffling and trying to fight back the need to fall apart, just looks down at his brother and then he realizes that Sam's chest is rising and falling, like nothing ever happened.

He almost laughs. In fact, he's pretty sure something rather akin to a laugh escapes his lips, almost smiling. It's sure as hell not from joy or happiness or hope. Reflexive relief is what Dean would call it.

He's still worried: Sam hasn't actually woken up. Thank God (or whatever) that Sam's breathing at least and he's not blue anymore, but he hasn't woken up. It puts Dean's hair on end wondering why, but he decides to fix himself up before he gets caught up in anxiety. Doing something is better than wallowing in self-pity.

He bandages the lacerated tissue between his thumb and forefinger where Sam's teeth had caught, and he ices his other fingers – they're bright red and raw-feeling. Then he gets a beer (which he chugs more than drinks), chucks what's left of their breakfast, and puts the laptop back in Sam's bag. Then he sits back at the table and stares at his unconscious brother lying on the floor.

A beat – filled with a breath that escapes Dean in the form of a curse – and then he's falling apart. His elbows brace against his knees as his hands reach up and pull at the short strands of his hair, tugging hard enough to break and stinging his scalp. Tears spill forth, blooming dark blue spots where they drop onto his jeans, and he sniffles as his nose and throat are flooded with them. His breaths catch on sobs that he refuses to give voice to – just noiseless puffs of air that rattle in his chest.

He wants to fix this. He wants so bad to make this all right, to go back to Before. Before demons were a dime a dozen. Before the word destiny meant more than just a metaphorical assumption. Before there was a wall between them that made sleeping in the same room difficult – before the sound of Sam's steady breathing stopped being able to soothe Dean to sleep.

A loud sob forces its way out between Dean's cleaned teeth, savage and sounding more like a wounded animal than a crying human: he wants to go back to before Sam went to Hell. His brother, his brave baby brother, sacrificed so much and lost even more... and for what?

The Greater Good could sit and twirl on it, for all Dean cared.

With reservation, Dean stands. He rubs his face on his shirt sleeve before reaching down and dragging his brother back toward a mattress. Dead weight, heavy beneath his hands, makes the four-foot journey seem longer. His back protests, in turn reminding Dean that he's getting far too old for this crap.

Though most of Sam's body drags arduously behind him, limbs turning this way and that, he never rouses. In fact, by the time Dean manages to haul his giant of a brother up from the floor and onto the bed, Sam is still just as dead to the world as before.

Dean positions his brother comfortably on the bedspread before sinking down next to him on the edge of the mattress. Reaching out hesitantly, Dean ghosts his fingertips over Sam's chest –  _still breathing_. Sam's ribs rise and fall with no interruption.

Fingertips clenching into a fist, Dean bites back tears again. Guilt rises up and pushes at the backs of his eyes, stinging and pinching, urging tears free. He did this: he had talked Sam into this mess. He was the one who insisted getting his soul back, insisted dragging Death back to Bobby's house and doing the deed. It's all Dean's fault. Everyone,  _everyone_ , had said it was a bad idea.

And they had been right.

Despite that, though, Dean can't help but feel justified in his decision. No matter how messed up his brother is... he's not in the Cage. He's not victim to god-knows-what anymore. If Sam dies, whether he goes up or down, at least he goes somewhere other than that prison....

“I can't do this anymore,” whispers Dean, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. The dizzying kaleidoscope of after-burn images calms him, taking his attention away for a moment. “Cas? Cas, I need your help, man... I—I don't know what to do.”

A gruff deadpan voice answers, “He's comatose.”

“Yeah,” Dean grumbles from behind his hands, too worn out to bother with sarcasm. He's still enjoying the cataclysm colors more than the sight of his brother, who is still and silent on the bed beside him. “Cas, I don't--” Emotion chokes his words, and he just looks up at his friend, knowing he must look wrecked.

Castiel frowns in a mimicry of sympathy and nods heavily. “Do you wish for me to wake him?”

“Maybe,” Dean whispers, suddenly unsure of why he even prayed in the first place. Part of him wants to admit that maybe he just needs the company, someone sane in comparison to Sam's antics – but calling an angel? That's just pathetic.

“From what I understand,” Castiel says slowly, centering Dean with a concerned gaze, “A coma is the human body's way of repairing itself... maybe Sam saw more than he should have.”

“Hell? You think he saw Hell?”

Castiel shrugs. “It's completely possible, Dean. As I've told you, his soul is--”

“Is damaged,” Dean interrupts in a grumble, “I know, I know.”

“You may have to face the fact that he's not going to get better, Dean. Your brother...  _this_  is your brother now.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get that.” Dean nods, running a hand over his face in an effort to wipe away the lingering tears. When he notices the look of disbelief hiding in Castiel's expression, he adds, “I do. Really..... Can you just... you know... mojo him up so he's just sleeping? Not in a damn  _coma_.” He looks to his friend, knowing he must seem so desperate, like a strung out junkie.

Castiel nods, though, and places his fingers gingerly upon Sam's brow. Dean can see the change in Sam's demeanor; his breathing isn't quite as deep, his expression is just a bit more present, his eyes move beneath his eyelids and make his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones.

A sigh escapes Dean and he smiles. “Thanks, Cas--” But the angel's gone.


	3. Chapter 3

_“I don’t think I want it back.”_

“ _You don’t even know what you’re saying.”_

“ _No, I’m saying something you don’t like. You obviously care, a lot. But I think maybe I’m better off without it.”_

“ _You’re wrong. You don’t know how wrong you are.”_

“ _I’m not sure about that.”_

 

* * *

 

 

“Ahhhnn... hmm. No. No. No,” Sam whimpers from the passenger seat. He's staring at his hands in pure fright, eyes tracking from his fingertips up to his elbows where the blood has seeped. His shirt is spattered with it, but his hands are the most convenient place to focus on. 

“Sam,” Dean says, cold and calm, “Sam, it's okay. Just stay with me, okay? Almost there... we'll get you all cleaned up, okay? We will. Don't worry.”

Sam glances over at him, meeting Dean's cool gaze with his own terrified stare. He shakes his head, feet scrambling against the foot-well as he tries to push himself away from his own hands. “No. All wrong. Wallpaper on the paneling. Shingles on the sidewalk. All wrong. Going up the down-stairs.”

It had been their first hunt after getting Sam's soul back. Dean had been hesitant but Sam had insisted... and he had been doing so well all day. No visions, full sentences, and only getting spooked at really loud noises. He had been so lucid when he looked to Dean and told him that he had found a job that was supposed to be easy – but then, it was  _always_  supposed to be easy. Sam had found out about some weird dog-like creature of old Inuit mythology that somehow ended up in the Great Lakes area, just outside of Duluth, Minnesota.

The theory: Hunt it down and stuff its skull full of silver.

 _Like a zombie werewolf_ , Sam had phrased it, with a wide smile on his face.

The practice: Bitch was fast.

The creature moved lightning quick, faster than anything they had ever encountered (barring angels and demons, but they just teleported – this thing  _moved_ ). Instead of shooting it in the head, both Dean and Sam barely managed to shoot it, period. They damaged it, left it whining and  _angry._ It pinned Sam, snarling over his struggling form, but its pause gave Dean just enough time to get a shot off.

Sam had been fine. When Dean went to pick him up, worried and asking  _Sam, are you okay, Sam, Sammy,_ Sam just smiled and nodded and thanked Dean for not panicking and saving his life. Hell, Sam had even given him a  _hug –_ actually embraced him of his own volition, without being a blubbering mess of tears and just needing the comfort. It made Dean a little proud: despite the circumstance, Sam was still keeping himself together and showing progress. This was good.

But then they got back to the Impala, underneath a streetlamp, and Sam had realized all the blood that was on himself. His shirt was soaked, his hands were covered in it, and some had even wedged up under his fingernails from when he had clawed at the beast. Sam lost it after that, and all Dean could think was to get him into the car and to a motel where they could clean up, quickly.

Dean's foot presses harder on the gas.

Sam is still whimpering by the time they turn off the highway and into a hotel parking lot. It's some dime-a-dozen franchise place, ritzier than their normal motels, but Dean's too worried to be picky. Sam has started to claw at his own skin in an effort to get the blood off, and Dean just can't wait.

He tries to let Sam know he'll be right back, going to get a key, but Sam doesn't hear him, isn't even paying attention, too focused on his hands. Dean gets a room on the second floor of the huge building and, grabbing their med kit and a bag of clothes out from the trunk, he drags his weeping brother up the stairs.

Once inside, Dean shoves his brother towards the bathroom, dropping their belongings on the floor next to the door. He resolves to go back to the car later, when Sam is calmer. He gets the shower running, then strips himself and Sam down to their skivvies – not quite comfortable actually stripping his brother all the way down.

“Sam,” he says, low and soothing, “Sammy, hey, it's me. Look at me, Sam.” He puts his hands on the sides of Sam's face. “Come on, it's okay. Breathe. Look at me. It's okay.”

Sam whimpers, squirming but not really trying to get away. He looks at Dean helplessly, waiting for some kind of affirmation. “D-Dean. Can't – too much – wrong, all wrong – insides, on the outside and upside-down. No, no, no – can't stop – nonono--” He's hyperventilating, barely managing to form sounds.

“Shh, Sam, hush,” he tries, giving Sam's shoulders a little shake, “Come on. Let's get you in the shower. It's warm and we'll get the.. the stuff off you, okay?” He's terrified of what the  _word_ will do to what precious little cognition his brother is holding onto.

Sam nods, shaking like a reed and barely keeping air in his lungs. There are tears collecting at the corners of his eyes, the ghost of previous tracks already dry on his cheeks.

Dean shuffles them into the shower, checking the water before getting in, and smiles when Sam sighs deep at the rush of warm steam that fills the cramped space around them. Dean grabs one of the complementary bars of soap – these franchises had perks, man – and starts to lather up Sam's arms.

He focuses on getting as much blood off Sam's arms as he can. The steam of the shower has calmed Sam a bit; he's not as hysterical, anyway. The water at the bottom of the tub runs dark, muddy brown and brick red. He tells Sam to look at him and keep looking at him,  _don't look down, Sammy._

He realizes Sam is talking to him – or really, talking  _at_  him. Sam's having a mumbled conversation with himself as he watches Dean clean his arms.

“Doing it wrong... need chicken soup and tissues... Don't go out in the rain!” He says the last bit to Dean directly, imploring him. “Can't catch cold, Dean.”

He nods, obliging his crazy little brother. “Sure, Sam. I won't.”

“Then, get... out.. of...”

“Whoa!” He takes a step back, keeping Sam from pulling his briefs down any further than he already had.

Sam pouts at him. “Dean,” he whines, “Can't catch cold.”

“Sam, I'm not going to catch a cold, okay? We're taking a shower, and I'm not about to take one  _naked_  while you are in here with me. Now come here so I can get the last of this crap off you.” He waves at Sam's hand and Sam reaches out, letting him run the bar of soap along his fingernails, working it underneath to get at the clotted mess.

As he rinses Sam's arms, he checks for other injuries but finds nothing worse than a bruise or two. All things considered, he and Sam did really well with this... except for the ending.

“Sorry,” Sam whispers as Dean finally turns the water off.

“What?”

“Said I'm sorry,” Sam says, speaking up a bit but keeping his face hidden beneath a curtain of stringy, wet hair.

Grabbing a towel and tossing it to Sam, Dean steps out of the shower. “Yeah, I got that, but what for?”

“For... for being nuts.”

Dean cocks a brow at Sam before ruffling a towel over his hair. He can only assume his hair is sticking up at odd ends when he looks over and catches Sam snickering under his breath. He smiles to his brother.

“Come on,” Dean says, “Let's get you dried off and in bed, okay? It's been a long day.”

Sam nods, though he still looks troubled.

 

* * *

 

  
They order pizza from an open-late place nearby, and watch cable on a nice,  _big_  television. Sam smiles at him when the cheese from his pizza stretches between his mouth and the slice, stringy and hanging heavily in the air. 

Dean is just starting to yawn when he notices Sam shudder. It's not the type of shudder people typically get and Dean's spidy-sense tingles.

“Sam?”

“'M okay.” He looks anything but.

“You might want to lay down, dude.”

“I'm okay, Dean.”

He recoils at the anger and defiance he hears in Sam's tone. “Okay, dude. Just... trying to be helpful.”

Sam takes a deep breath and says, “Just... memories. Ghost-images. Left-overs.”

“Of...?”

“Visions. Hell. Life. Things I'm not sure ever really happened.” He's so nonchalant about it all. Dean can't believe the deadpan attitude he has when he mentions Hell.

“Oh,” he says, stupidly. “Okay... You, uh, you can talk about it, if you need to.”

“Noises in my ears... they're not real, but they sound real,” he whispers, looking down at the bedspread like it's a calculus problem that he's just itching to solve. “The blood bothered me, is all.”

Dean nods. “Sorry that happened, Sammy. I didn't think ahead--”

“You shouldn't have to.” It's the same detached whisper, but there's just the faintest hint of frustration behind it.

Dean hates this: treading on egg shells. “Yeah, well,” he sighs, “You shouldn't have to, either.”

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but doesn't find words. He sits, silently, waiting for Dean to say something else, to change the subject.

So he does: “How about we get ready for bed, hmm? I'm gonna go wash up. You get dressed.”

Despite the mess of a catastrophe they had to deal with earlier, Dean considers today a good day: Sam hadn't had a single vision, hadn't refused to eat when told to, and he was lucid, even now, after the hunt. Today had been  _excellent_. Maybe there was hope. Maybe Sam could manage to get back into the swing of things and figure out a way to keep himself grounded to reality.

The ghost of an idea filled his mind; the words  _settling down_ echo through his thoughts. Images of Lisa, of Ben, of Sam with the golden retriever he'd always wanted.... Dean spits the last of his toothpaste into the sink and chastises himself for being so idealistic.

He's thrilled that Sam is making progress, but in the end, they still have a long ways to go. The visions have slowed and there haven't been anymore seizures, but what Sam has witnessed in the last few weeks has left him really messed up. Therapy would do him some good, but Dean doesn't really know how to go about getting him that kind of help. The best he can offer is to be there when his brother needs him.

Despite the trouble and the heartache, Dean realizes that he  _wants_ to be there. It's not simply an obligation. He needs Sam,  _this_ Sam, just as much as Sam needs him. Their relationship has always been synergistic. Even if Sam's habits have changed, the basics of their dynamic have not.

When he leaves the bathroom, Dean finds his brother already under the covers of his bed. The lights are all turned off, except for the one next to Dean's bed, and the pizza has been cleaned up. There is a moment of disappointment where Dean wishes he could have talked a little more with his brother.

Sam is silent as Dean climbs into his own bed, pulling the covers up and twisting the switch for the bedside lamp. Dean waits for Sam's breathing to smooth out before he climbs out of bed and pads back into the bathroom with his cellphone. It's been a week since the last time Dean spoke with Bobby; he had promised to check in with the old man every few days.

“You idjit!” The gruff voice says by way of greeting. “You know what time it is?”

Dean smiles, keeping his voice low when he answers. “Yeah, well... since when have you ever kept normal hours?”

“Huh,” Bobby grunts. “So how's Sam?”

A sigh. “He's okay. Today was a good day actually. Nothing weird and he was pretty coherent about things.”

“You boys go after that Adlet?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, never getting used to being referred to as a 'boy'. “It was so fast, Bobby. Like... you would not believe how quick it moved. It went after Sam--”

“You said he was okay.”

“Yeah, he is. It didn't managed to hurt him – I shot that bitch down before it could.” He gets a grunt in response. “Sam did freak out, though, when he realized he had so much blood on him. Had to get a night at the local Ho-Jo.”

“Upscale,” Bobby says sarcastically.

“Yeah. Tell me about it. Took all the cash we earned this past week to get just one night.... but Sam was losing it, so I got the nearest thing, you know?”

“Right. Well... you think you kids are going to hunt again?”

Dean pauses, words sitting heavy on his tongue with no idea how to formulate themselves. “I don't know, Bobby. I keep thinking that Sam needs to find something structured. He doesn't need to be back on the road... I mean, we only did this because he wanted to and now he's freaking out bad enough to want to scratch his own skin off!” He's whispering but his words are harsh. “I just.. I don't know if this is that good for him.”

“He can always come stay here, Dean.”

“Yeah, but you don't need two idiots keeping you busy.”

“Didn't say both of you.”

Another pause. “And you're suggesting....?”

“There's that woman you like, right? With the boy?”

“Lisa?” He scoffs. When did Bobby become a mind-reader? “Nah... I, I can't go back to her. Especially now? With Sam the way he is? He needs looking after and I can't just leave him...” And he knows now, with sudden clarity – as if saying it to someone else has affirmed the decision to himself – he knows he's not leaving Sam. Come what may, he won't ever leave his brother's side.

“Besides,” he continues, “She and I... We're done anyway. I guess, really, it comes down to Sam and I, the family business--” He hears a door catch, outside in the room. “Bobby, I'm gonna have to call you back.” He ends the call without waiting for Bobby to say goodbye.

He opens the bathroom door, peeking in to see the room dark and uninterrupted. Maybe he had heard a neighbor. Except, he realizes with dread, Sam's bed is empty.

_Sonuva..._

It's cold out, chill filling the night air, and he lingers inside long enough to grab his jacket before going back out. He looks all over but can't find Sam. He's not at the Impala, not loitering in the lobby or on any of the floors that Dean can tell.

He can't have lost him now. Christ, they were just getting into the grove of being brothers again. Dean was just starting to figure out the riddles hidden in Sam's crazy analogies. Sam was getting so much better: he spoke (a little bit) to people he didn't know, and blood was easy enough to avoid after all... Sam couldn't have left now! They were just starting to make this  _work_.

Dean needed to make this work. More than anything, Dean needed Sam. He had lost his brother for so long, had buried his brother and then been mocked for six months with a facsimile of him. Now that he finally had his brother back, no matter how messed up, he couldn't give him up. He couldn't let Sam just end this. He wouldn't stand for it.

Dashing down the second-floor hallway for a third time, he hears a startled voice below and looks down to see two people side by side, one pointing up toward the sky. They're saying something, the words  _look_  and  _oh my god_  echoing up to Dean's ears. Dread fills his core as Dean draws conclusions as to Sam's whereabouts.

 

* * *

 

 

Sure enough, Dean finds his brother on the roof of the hotel building. This is the last time he ever,  _ever_  lets them stay at a franchise... stupid multi-story buildings. 

Sam is standing on the edge of the roof, chill wind whipping at his shirt. It's colder up here, where the winds blows harder, and Dean can see the gooseflesh prickling along Sam's arms. His brother doesn't seem to notice, though; he just stares up at the sky and sways, toes curling around the edge of the roof.

Dean makes his footsteps loud on the pebbled concrete, and when he speaks, his volume is cautious. The last thing he wants is to spook his brother and force him over the edge. Wouldn't that be the most poetic ending to this whole fairy-tale-gone-wrong? Dean Winchester: Brother-killer.

“Sam?”

Sam's head tilts back to gaze over his shoulder and he smiles sadly. “Hi, Dean.”

“What are you doing?”

“London Bridge,” Sam mumbles, looking back down at his toes.

“Why don't you just come over here with me, huh?” Dean asks, holding his hand out in invitation, willing his brother to listen.

[ ](http://cedarcliffe.livejournal.com/22186.html)

Sam is silent, arms moving like a cat's tail in an attempt to keep his balance as he tips precariously forward. “It's all over the floor. Pieces scattered everywhere and you can't find them all. Some went up under the couch,” he says, stopping Dean in his slow progression toward him.

“What?”

“You think I don't know. But I do,” says Sam, pivoting and taking one foot off the ledge. Dean starts to protect, voice rising up in his throat as his stomach plummets, but Sam keeps his balance on the ball of one foot and turns around, facing him. “I know you wanted me back but this wasn't what you wanted... it's not what anyone wanted,” he finishes in a whisper.

Dean is inarticulate with confusion. “Sam-- it's not – uhm--”

“Yes, it is!” Sam's gaze moves from his feet up to Dean, all but glaring at him. “You wanted your brother but they forgot to give you the important pieces.” Sam rocks back from the balls of his feet and, had there been a ground beneath them, onto his heels. His arms reach upward, spreading out like he's going to fly, as his body tilts even further back.

Dean's insides go cold.  _Oh, God, no..._

“Sam! No!”

With a jerk of his neck and a whisk of his arms, Sam straightens (albeit with discomforting difficulty). “You think I don't know,” he continues, words leaving him in disjointed collections, as if he has to punch them out of him, “You and Bobby and Cas and... you all think I don't understand. You think I don't get it. But I  _do_ , Dean. I know... I know I'm not right, but I—I can't fix it and I'm hurting you.” Sam rubs at his nose, showing attention to the cold for the first time, or maybe he was just trying not to cry; Dean couldn't be sure.

“I need to go, Dean. You can be who you want to be, then. You all can. You can be who you were before...” A gust of wind steals his attention for a second; his head turns with the direction of it before snapping back to Dean. “People should be who they are, should be with who they want to be with, do what the want to do..... Always a piece left over. Makes you worry you didn't follow the pictures right. I shouldn't be here.”

Dean's hands fall to his sides. He's afraid to move, eyes locked on the way Sam's toes keep curling and the tendons in his feet keep flexing and the way his knees shake with the effort of keeping him upright. He needs to get Sam off this building or, at the very least, away from the edge of it.

“Sam,” he tries, voice cracking despite himself, “That's not true--”

“But it is!” He sounds exasperated, hands gesticulating in front of him, tone fervent, like he's trying to explain that two plus two really does equal four, no matter which way you slice it. “I remember everything! I remember too much! More than I want. And some of it's wrong, and then some of it's  _really_  wrong...”

Sam's wall of indifference collapses; the corners of his mouth twist in an attempt to hold back a grimace and he grips hand-fulls of his hair. His voice wavers like a dying chord. “And some of it, I can't make sense of. I have secrets, Dean. So many secrets. And there are nasty, dirty,  _wretched_ things....”

“Hey, hey,” Dean soothes, taking another step close. Only five feet between them. If he could only... “It's okay.”

“But I  _understand_!” He jerks his head up, staring at his elder brother with desperation, tears sparkling in the half-light cast from the streetlamps. “You gave up a life for me. Cas and Bobby and you – all of you gave up something for me. Then you found me. Finally, you found me. And I was broken. Confetti after prom....” He trails off, staring at some middle ground in his vision that Dean would never be able to see. Perhaps it only existed in Sam's reality now.

With a shudder, Sam looks back up at Dean, eyes wet and nose leaking. He says, “I'm not the same. You can fix it up with glue and love and all the tenderness in the world – and god,  _you have_ , Dean.” His voice tightens with the emotions and his shoulders hunch, almost doubling him over, with the weight of it.

Dean's just two feet from him now... he could almost just reach out....

“God, you have,” Sam whispers sadly, “And it isn't fair to do that, Dean. I can't keep demanding things of you. I can't let you just give up so much for something that will never fit back together again! The cracks will always... they'll al-always b-be there and, and....”

Sam sniffles through his words, rubbing at his face and clawing at his hair. There are marks all over his arms from where his nails have dug into the skin.

Dean manages to get close enough to him to reach out and pull him back from the ledge, and Sam's weight collapses into his brother's open arms, as if he'd only been waiting for someone to show him he was allowed to leave the edge. He buries his wet cheek against the scratchy but warm fabric of Dean's jacket, shoulders shaking with soft, near-silent sobs.

“Sammy,” sighs Dean, wrapping his arms tightly around the only thing he has left in his world, “God, you're such an idiot.”

“Humpty-dumpty sat on a wall...,” Sam sing-songs thickly through snot-filled sniffles. “Humpty-dumpty had a g-great fall.”

Dean shushes him, letting them sink down onto the cold concrete of the hotel's roof and tries to warm his brother up a little. Sam is boneless in his arms, emotionally exhausted and physically drained.

“All the king's h-h...” A deep, calming breath, and he continues, “All the king's horses and all the king's men....” But Sam doesn't finish. He just curls tighter into the warmth of his brother, gripping handfuls of the abrasive fabric.

They sit in silence, Sam interrupting it with an occasional whimpering hiccup that Dean subsequently shushes. He cards his fingers through Sam's hair, enjoying the feel of it. It was always so much softer than his own... and Sam always enjoyed the petting, and it made Dean happy to make Sam happy.

“Sam,” he says softly, breaking the silence, “Don't do that again, okay?”

Sam doesn't answer him, rubbing his frigid nose into Dean's neck.

“You're stupid, you know that? You really are,” Dean grumbles playfully. He pulls Sam up onto his feet. Shrugging his jacket off, he wraps it around Sam's thin shoulders. “Thinking that you're keeping me from anything. I mean, really, Sam.”

His brother pulls away then, staring at him from beneath a mess of straggly hair. Dean meets Sam's confusion with a lop-sided grin and reaches out, tucking the stray pieces of hair behind Sam's ears and laughs a little when they refuse to be tamed.

“I have everything I could ever want and need,” he says, placing his hands on Sam's shoulders, “Right here.”

And it was the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for brokenangel6662 's oh_sam h/c challenge prompt:  
>  _Gen._
> 
> _Dean ends up getting Sam's soul back, but there are complications. A traumatized, broken Sam is the result because, to make matters worse, Sam's powers and/or visions have returned worse than ever. Now he can feel them. Sam is pretty much insane at this point, speaking in riddles, powers uncontrolled._
> 
> _Dean takes care of him, but carries major guilt around because he knows Sam really didn't want his soul/feelings back because he knew it would be bad, he only did it because it was what Dean wanted. To add insult to injury, Bobby and Cas had also wondered if they were doing the right thing. They try to look after Sam. An ill, self-destructive Sam sounds good. A scene with a vision-plagued, violently seizing Sam with Dean trying to hold him down and desperately pleading with him to be okay would be lovely._
> 
>  
> 
> Massive thanks to [cedarcliffe](http://cedarcliffe.livejournal.com/) for the perfect artwork!


End file.
